


I Don't Think of You

by Pennytextrix



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Female Solo, Masturbation, Multiple Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennytextrix/pseuds/Pennytextrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little Laura solo love written for the bsg_pornbattle. Prompts: I don’t think about you, creative use of office supplies, fantasy, kinks, power trip, black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Think of You

When I touch myself, I don’t  think about you. For my own sanity I make sure it is a purely physical release. Of stress, of emotion. I do not like to think about how it is you that causes the deepest of these emotions. And on those nights when I need a little more than the physical, more than the hard, frustrated swipe of my own hand, more than the awkward slide of my own fingers. Then, and only then, do  I imagine anything, anyone but you.

I cup my breasts, scrape my nails across them,  lightly flicking at the nipples.  I suck on my fingers languidly before drawing them down my chest. Nipples tightening at the contact of the damp heat drying in the cool air circulating around my cot on Colonial One. I attach a paper clip to each nipple, laughing at my creative use of office supplies.  I imagine the hard bite to be Kara’s perfect teeth. My wet fingers, the hot slide of her tongue against me. I imagine her face, that cocky grin staring up at me, as I gasp and jump against her hand as she pushes into me, over and over. As I come down underneath her talented fingers, the sound of her voice in false and amused surprise breaks through the haze:

“Well, Madam Prez! I didn’t know you had it in you...”

The use of my title. However contracted, always turns me on. It makes me wish that you had never started calling me Laura. In these fantasies no one calls me that. These releases are for the President. Laura is happy. Off elsewhere, imagining herself safe, contented in your arms.

Kara’s face morphs into that of my new pretty little marine guard. The one who never manages to cover the want in her eyes. Still fully clothed in that black uniform, she goes down on me. I feel her  part my folds, exposing my clit from its hood, before flicking her tongue across it in thousands of hard little flicks. It is intense, an unbearable force of pleasure and I buck away from her. My throat is  sore from the sharp  noises she has managed to drag from me with her tongue. She smiles confidently up at me, from between my spread legs. Places a firm hand over  my stomach, holding me down and pulling my dripping cunt back to her mouth.  I will never come like this, but when lovers are only in your head the advantage is that they know exactly what you want.

Three long fingers push into me, in smooth upward strokes that catch just in the right spot and press harder, roughly in the pool of wet heat that surrounds them. I imagine that those fingers have a smoother , more heated texture to them than is usual. I imagine that she never took off those leather gloves. I don’t  think about  you. It is not you, but  that single, slightly kinky thought that pushes me, once more, into oblivion.

I find myself alone in my cot. I can feel myself still twitching aftershocks against my fingers. I press in further, experimentally and bite a gasp into the pillow. The President is hungry tonight and we are not finished. I pull the paperclips away from my breasts and let them scatter, not caring where they fall. I joy in the rush of heated blood back to those hard sensitive points. I turn onto my stomach supporting myself on my elbows and  I squeeze at a breast roughly, while I rock against my hand, grinding my clit against it, fingers pushing at my entrance. I pick a fantasy, long held, first thought of  in the long nights after you abandoned me on New Caprica with only the memory of sweet words and out of tune songs for comfort. 

I imagine Sam Anders pounding into me from behind as I hold onto slick rock, and gasp his name, “Sam...Sam...Sam..”,  down in that cave we called resistance headquarters. He has a name made for sex. A single short syllable. Just like yours. His hands are all over me, under clothes, sweeping across my flanks, over my breasts. A strong muscled arm supporting me against his chest as he fingers my clit and begs me to come. I am not the President here. But he calls me Ma’am anyway. Here I am not ashamed that I like it. And neither is he.

So, In answer to your question, Bill, No. When I touch myself,  I never think about  you. It is only afterwards. When I lay sticky and alone on sweat soaked sheets. Only then, do I become Laura, and think of you.

 


End file.
